


Line of Duty

by PrettyArbitrary



Series: Serviceman [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Military Uniforms, Omega Verse, Public Sex, Rough Sex, The dubious consent is not on John's part, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what unit omegas are for.  For all the training and conditioning Special Forces men receive, they're still human, and they take more physical and emotional punishment than most civilians can fathom.  John’s here to give his alphas whatever they need to stay healthy and sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> This is about...oh, 70% consensual and non-problematic omegaverse. The scenario is somewhat complicated, but then when you're dealing with a military situation in which one of the people is stationed there specifically to give sex to the others, things are bound to get sticky. In more than one sense. Ahem.
> 
> Beta-props and my soul go to Aria, Dee-light, LapOtter, and HiddenLacuna.
> 
> If it reads rough or you find typos, that'll be because I finally needed to just wrap this up and throw it onto the internets before my patience gave out and I deleted the entire thing. I'm _pretty_ sure that would have been unfortunate, so my apologies if it's a bit hackneyed compared to my usual!

John's hanging back with Delta Team when a _boom_ rattles the air from up ahead. He's barely hit the dirt when Captain Boyd's voice crackles over the comms and sets him scrambling back to his feet. “Man down! Get Doc up here now!”

It’s a 100 metre jog through scrub to Charlie Team’s position. There were hostiles in the area; they've been pretty well cleared out but John still keeps his head down, so he smells the problem before he sees it: burning dust, hot metal and blood, and the acrid scent of triggered explosives. He knows what he's going to see when he clears the brush, but the sight kicks him in the gut anyway: one of theirs, laid out under a tree about 15 metres away, his uniform dark with spreading gore. The smoke from the IED that wounded him is still clearing. A small one, obviously; an anti-personnel device, a booby trap laid with deliberate intent to maim rather than kill.

It’s Trowbridge; John recognizes him from his machine gun. Protective fury wracks him so hard he shivers with it. How _dare_ some murderous fucking waste of human flesh hurt one of his alphas? Worse, a quick movement draws John's eye to a second of their men standing over Trowbridge’s fallen form, also spattered with blood and twitching like every sound or movement in the landscape is an enemy attack. He’s in frenzy, John can tell at a glance; he’s moving with none of the coordinated grace or precision these men are trained for. His abdominals tighten with the impulse to rush forward, gather them both in against him to shelter, comfort, heal. He wants to smash somebody’s face in for giving them pain.

He draws in a deep, shaky breath. Up ahead, the rest of Charlie Team is straggled out in a loose perimeter. John can read their stress and anxiety in their grips on their rifles and the way they turn their heads, trying to see, sniff and listen all at once. They’re counting on him to stay calm. He’s the team omega; he’s the one who keeps his head when the alphas lose theirs. 

John comes up even with Ned Batiste, keeping watch to the rear, and releases his anger along with his breath. His doctor’s brain is already analyzing, prioritizing. As disturbing as the experience of frenzy can be, injuries come first. Chances are Trowbridge is dying, and from here John can’t tell if the second man is wounded or if the blood he’s wearing belongs to Trowbridge. "God, Ned, tell me that's not Davis.”

Batiste nods grimly. “He lost it when the IED caught Trowbridge.” 

John’s eyes squeeze shut. Of course it’s Davis; those two are joined at the hip. Shock and the scent of Trowbridge’s blood spattered on his face, and of course Davis flipped like he’d just seen his baby brother blown up next to him.

Ned shakes his head, upper lip caught in his teeth, and voices the thought in John’s own head. “We’re gonna need you to take him down, Doc. He won’t let us close enough to tell if Trowbridge is alive.”

John simply nods in response.

This is what unit omegas are for. For all the training and conditioning Special Forces men receive, they're still human, and they take more physical and emotional punishment than most civilians can fathom. John’s here to give his alphas whatever they need to stay healthy and sane: medical care, companionship, an outlet for their stress and pain and, when necessary, an objective assessment of their need for help beyond what he can provide.

It’s a duty in which he’s failed. John knew damn well he needed to file a recommendation for a psych consultation. Jeremy hasn’t been right ever since they had to fight their way out of that ambush in Qurya last month; hasn’t been sleeping well, even when John curled up with him; hasn’t been willing to talk about how his restless shifting wakes John at night, or the way his teammates have noticed him jumping at sudden sounds or movements.

But fuck, what could happen, right? Why embarrass Davis and separate him from the team just when they needed him? _Well, Watson, happy now?_ Because there’s Davis, trapped in the mental howl of frenzy, in a hell of a lot more humiliation and pain than a psych evaluation would’ve cost him. His mind’s caught in a loop, instincts screaming, “Packmate threatened! Kill the interloper!” but with no interloper to kill. On some level, Davis knows there’s nothing he _can_ do that’s useful; nothing to shoot, no way to help Trowbridge. He can only fuss and scratch for an enemy to protect his comrade against, instinct insisting it’ll make everything better if he can just drive someone off. 

Which is why none of the rest of the team can get close.

“Was Davis hit?” John asks. He’s not sure which would be worse: if Jeremy’s walking wounded, or if that’s Trowbridge’s blood on his face, the scent of his dying friend filling his head on every inhale.

“Can’t tell,” Batiste answers with a helpless headshake.

John looks up to catch Batiste watching him with a calm depth in his eyes that pours like cement down through John’s body. It’s trust; that John will know what to do, that he can fix this.

John hates this, and loves it; that these strong, proud alphas, who can fight and hunt and kill along with the best in the world, turn so humbly to him to soothe their hurts and fears. He hands Ned his rifle and starts pulling at the clasps of his pack. “I’ll take care of Davis. Murray!”

The team’s spread out and keeping well back, trying to provide cover for their fallen teammates without working Davis up any further. Murray raises his head where he’s crouched further down the perimeter, and John waves him over. He's going to need Murray as backup medic for this. “Murray, break out your med pack. Ned, help me get my kit off.”

Associations; to these men, John smells like sex, healing, safety, pack, territory. The better Davis can smell John, the more responsive he’ll be to what John needs to do. He opens his shirt to run his hands through the sweat on his chest, smearing his scent up over his neck and through his hair, and angles his path upwind of Davis.

Fifteen feet from Davis, John slows to study the scene. Trowbridge’s equipment’s a mangled mess, but he’s still breathing; it looks like the body armour saved his life, but that’s not going to matter much if Bill doesn’t get up here in the next few minutes. Hunched over the fallen man, Davis watches John with the wary concern of a mother cat guarding new kittens, but he offers no sign of threat.

John locks eyes with him, and makes the crooning sound he makes at the end of a really good kiss. 

Davis’s eyes light up, startled and engaged, so John makes it again, a purring hum down in his throat, and reaches out with one hand.

Davis takes a cautious, prowling step towards him. 

John lets instinct guide him as he closes in, their bodies engaged in a subtle, shifting conversation even he can’t entirely translate. His breathing deepens as he lets himself sink into the memory of arousal: lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, and a little arch to his back that makes his hips sway with each step. It feels submissive, uncomfortably vulnerable out here in the open, but it draws Davis to him. A little of the awful snapping tension eases from his body as he leans in. John feels a bit of his own stress drain away in relief at the sight.

John closes his eyes and stretches with a slow, luxurious undulation of his torso and a growling moan that’s half pleasure and half grumble. He hears a sharp inhale from Davis’s direction, and hopes like hell it comes from the man who’s still conscious.

He hates having to do it this way. All his instincts clamour to draw Davis close, to pet and gentle him down out of this, but that could take half an hour and Trowbridge can’t afford that kind of time. This is so out of line, having sex with teammates outside heat; regulations would skewer the whole team if it went on record. But he sure as fuck won’t stand by while Captain Boyd tasers Davis unconscious, and Boyd would just as soon prefer any alternative, himself. This is more merciful, even if he has to prey on Davis’s mental state to do it.

“Jeremy?” It’s easy to let his voice pitch upwards and breathy, into the tones of a needy omega. “I... Jeremy, oh god.” Davis looks predatory and half-mad. It’s like dancing with fire; his sodding danger kink. And all his alphas watching this, _Jesus_ , he can feel their eyes burning into him, protective and covetous. His little sashay this time is because his trousers are getting uncomfortably tight. “Please. I want your hands on me.” He draws a hand down from his collarbone to the crest of his opposite hip, fingertips flicking over his nipple by way of example. “Look, I’m all yours. No one else anywhere near. You can have me any way you like, as long as you like.”

He snaps his fingers at the rest of the unit behind his back, who’re paying a bit too much attention to him and Davis and not enough to their surroundings. _Eyes on the right scenery, boys._

Davis is still trying to see in every direction at once, but his body’s oriented on John. He takes another step closer, crackling with an intensity that makes John whimper in an entirely unfeigned way. This is going to be one hell of a storm to ride out. “Jeremy... Oh, _Christ_ , I want you. We’re safe.” He swallows down the spike of lust and takes a gliding step forward into Jeremy’s personal space. With two fingers, he strokes through the sweat on his own throat and then over Davis's upper lip. “Show me I’m safe.”

Davis takes a deep breath, and then John finds himself crushed up against the lumpy, jabby, pointy assemblage of equipment the man’s got strapped across his chest. He can’t help struggling a bit for a more comfortable position, but Davis’s arms only tighten across his back till John submits and falls still, snuggling in against him.

He sighs and reaches around to start working at the clasps and fasteners at Davis’s back. “I want you to bite me,” he murmurs up into the taller man’s ear. “Mount me, knot me, just...fucking take me, Jeremy. I can’t keep away from you when you’re this...” This what? He tugs at one loosened strap of Davis’s rucksack and tries to think. Bloody hell, this sexy patter is easier when he’s off his nut with heat. He scours Davis’ form for the things that turn John on about him: fit body, that gorgeous olive skin... John nuzzles in to lick at the hollow of his throat, wanting to feel it on his tongue, and shudders. Oh fuck the taste of his sweat. Strong, powerful, out of control...a little ‘ah’ clicks in the back of John’s throat as he realizes. “This angry.”

He gasps as Davis’s hands grip at his arse and just under one shoulder blade, and then wriggles against him. Davis can barely feel it through the body armour and really sodding uncomfortable kit; which is the point, because when John grasps the Osprey armour by the armholes and tugs gently, Davis takes the hint and lets him pull back enough to work the stuff off.

John dumps the armour to the side, grins insolently, and claws both hands sharply down Davis’s freshly-accessible front.

He’d forgotten how fast and strong a frenzying alpha can be. There’s a moment of whiplash, and then a hard body at his back. John cries out as Davis’s teeth seize his nape, right on the sensitive spots that make his legs buckle. It’s an effective submission hold; he’s too preoccupied with the tingling jolt flooding through him to resist being stripped. Davis drags John’s shirt savagely down his arms till the cuffs cut into his wrists. A couple of frustrated tugs only manage to wrench John’s shoulders and bind his hands in a knot formed of his sleeves. Davis abandons it with a growl and moves down, grabbing at John’s pockets to tear his trousers open with one hard pull that nearly knocks John off his feet. John chokes off a scream, because being jerked against the hold of Davis’s teeth in his scruff hits him like some amazing form of electrocution. He grinds shamelessly back against Davis’s groin, because he’s getting wet and god help him he’s really starting to want a cock inside him.

He groans his approval when Davis slips a hand into his torn trousers to fondle him. The other presses at the base of his throat to keep him from pulling out of Davis’s grip on the back of his neck, which is a pretty fucking good idea too. It pushes John’s neck back into the firm nips Davis is leaving all over his nape, wracking him with little rolling thrills of pleasure till he can’t stop squirming and making needy little noises that are damn well _not_ anything he would call mewling.

So Davis is really shocked when, having worked his hands free of his shirt, John drops down and back and then hip-tosses him into the dirt.

John scrambles clear, pulling up his wrecked trousers so they don’t catch at his legs, and bares his teeth in challenge. _Come on, then. Try and take me. Prove you're hard enough._

Davis’s eyes lock on John, dazed and furious. “Disobedient omega, that’s right,” John growls, backing away in a fighting crouch. “Come on, put me in my place.” 

Davis starts to stalk after him, which is just about the worst possible time for Bill to call, “He’s alive! Hypovolemic shock, sinus tachycardia.”

“Goddammit, Bill,” John mutters as Davis jerks in the direction of the shout. When he sees Murray, he freezes for a second, torn between putting John down or defending Trowbridge. 

John doesn’t give him the chance to make up his mind. He leaps on Davis’s back to bite him on the neck.

The next thing he knows, 13 stone of Royal Marine is driving him into the ground and coming down on top, ripping at what’s left of his clothes. John slaps him across the face. Davis pins his hand down, and John snarls at the way the bones grind together.

But it’s fine, it’s all fine so long as John stays the only thing on Davis’s mind. Davis manhandles him retributively, working in between his legs and lifting John’s hips clear of the ground by the shredded cloth of his trousers, trying to shake them off. He’s brutally strong, and not fully aware of it, hands bruisingly rough on John’s body. John doesn’t try to brace himself, just rolls with it and lets Davis control him. “Just fucking come at me, Jeremy,” he growls, and scratches his nails down the powerfully flexing intercostals that band Davis’s flanks. “Try to make me scream, I dare you.”

He’s slammed back into the ground with a grunt. Behind him--ahead?--somewhere over there, he hears a strangled shout of protest. He twists his hands into thick black hair and laughs out loud, because he’s not fucking breakable. It’s not John who’s in danger here. He tugs Jeremy’s head down to him by the hair to purr, “Do it, Jeremy. I want you. Do it now.”

And he does want it now; if he doesn’t get plowed into the ground in the next few minutes, he’s going to go out of his head. It’s rather sodding flattering how enthusiastically Davis renews his assault on John’s trousers, even if he’s less than successful. John hisses as it tears a bit and then bunches, biting into the vulnerable crease of his thighs. Visibly frustrated, Davis simply yanks the whole mess down till it catches at John’s knees. John laughs again--the dear lad’s trying--and squirms a bit to demonstrate how his legs are now bound together.

Davis grabs him by the hips and flips him onto his belly. John hits the dirt and loses his breath somewhere between the big hands wrapped around his pelvis and the pointy bits of twig and dry, poky grass jabbing into the soft flesh of his abdomen.

He pushes up enough to get his face out of the grass and finds himself looking into Ned Batiste’s shell-shocked face. John flashes his teeth at him amiably. The poor man looks so scandalized; obviously Ned’s never considered his own sex face before, but then John’s alphas generally have better things to pay attention to during his heats.

Behind him, cloth tears. He’d bet his pension that Davis’s trousers just became a casualty. John’s legs are still caught in the tangle of his own wrecked fatigues, but he pulls his knees up under him so that at least he’ll have leverage if he needs it. It must look too much like he’s thinking of taking off, though, because Davis growls and strong hands shove him back down and pin him, gritty dirt scraping across his chest.

The hot, heavy living weight of Davis’s body follows a second later, folding down over John from behind, and then teeth are clamping into the already-sensitized back of John’s neck.

John yowls and arches. Tingling, enervating sensation jolts down through the nerves in his wrists, the backs of his legs, in the soles of his feet and his nipples and perineum. Davis worries at him a little, the breathtaking pleasure of it sapping his strength till he sobs with the way it steals his body from him; the way Davis is making him _need_. He deepens the arch of his back, presenting himself in an unspoken plea, his entrance grasping greedily at nothing.

The hands gripping his body flex, and then the air’s crushed from his lungs as Davis enters and fills him completely in a single movement. The pain/pleasure of it is paralyzing, seizing him between warning signals that his body needs to relax for this and the perfect, luxurious sensation of being filled to the brink of what he can take.

Even better, Davis doesn’t give him time to adjust. John fights to catch his breath as it’s forced out of him with every thrust, Davis’s driving pace keeping him caught delightfully between the possessive stretch of the cock in his vagina and the uncomfortable penetration in his unprepared anal passage. Unable to so much as adjust his angle with Davis’s hands clamped and controlling on his hips, John can only struggle to keep his balance on bound knees as he’s rocked by thrust after thrust.

Under the rhythmic sounds of his own cries, John hears Captain Boyd’s voice muttering something. He must’ve sneaked up to help Murray. John can’t push up enough to see past Davis, but when he tries, Ned catches his attention with a hand gesture.

_Pulling him back. On my signal._

John nods in acknowledgement. 

Drawn by the motion, Davis grabs John’s hair and jerks his head back, nibbling at the sparking erogenous zones of his neck till John’s screaming thinly through his teeth with every contact. John tries to keep his eyes open and fixed on Ned’s raised hand, and tries not to think about how humiliatingly desperate he must look, writhing on Davis’s cock like he was made for it. Tries not to think about how with just a few more minutes, Davis would have him shaking and coming and melting into a puddle with what already promises to be one truly fucking spectacular orgasm. Maybe two.

Ned’s hand drops. John snarls at the injustice, shoves up hard and lunges away, ripping himself from Davis’s teeth and hands and goddamnit, he feels so achingly _bereft_.

Behind them, Boyd and Bill shout and scramble, but the enraged snarl just behind him catches most of his attention. Even if he wanted to, there’s no chance of getting very far, in this state. John’s going to pay for this one in just a few seconds. The dread and desire of it clumps into a hot lead ball in his abdomen, just above his groin, so that Davis’s weight crashing back down is almost a physical relief, driving John to his stomach. The rock jabbing into the left side of his ribcage is less welcome; John winces, then yelps as he’s dragged backwards by his hips over the fucking thing and shoved onto his back.

Davis is immediately in his face, looking furious and radiant, complexion flushed dark and eyes snapping black, growling so deep in his chest so that John can feel the reverberation. John exhales and deliberately goes lax, because Davis wouldn’t _really_ hurt him, but less than pleasant things can happen to an omega when an alpha gets this worked up. 

Davis pushes John’s tangled legs up and to one side, then pauses to take in the view of John’s vulnerable arse and thighs. The feral satisfaction in his face makes John’s blood fizz with the awareness of how exquisitely accessible he is. He lifts his hips pleadingly. Davis meets his eyes, smirks, and bends down to run his tongue over John’s perineum.

John grabs at the dirt for some kind of hold to keep from flying apart. He can’t even beg, just whines through his nose while Davis torments him. He tries to remember to breathe as Davis licks his way up his body till he’s covering John again. Oh god, all these shenanigans have got him even more sensitive. As Davis sinks into him again, John flings an arm across his eyes and tries not to die.

It’s so good. John is so ready to come, but after only a few magnificent strokes, Davis pulls out again. John grumbles and grabs at his wrists, wondering if this is his just desserts for running away. But Davis tips his hips up to a new angle and drives home again...only John arcs into a startled bow as this time Davis penetrates into John’s rectal passage.

He tries to writhe away from the intruding hardness, but folded up and held like this, he can barely move. Davis simply tightens his grip on John’s hips and growls, “Mine!”

John snarls back in response and lunges up to sink his teeth in Davis’s trapezius. He tastes blood.

John can hear himself moaning, but he can’t stop, any more than he can hold still no matter how it makes Davis growl. Hips and legs held immobile, his torso torques and arches under Davis with every thrust. It’s uncomfortable, _strange_ , but the invasive stretch where it doesn’t belong chases an edge between pain and pleasure, eerily intimate and teasing at both his prostate and the sensitive entrance to his vagina. John can’t decide whether to grind down on Davis or try to wriggle away. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Keeping him like this, confused in his own desire, it’s his punishment for trying to escape.

But hell, it’s keeping Davis diverted from the men moving Trowbridge. Uncomfortably, desperately aroused, John takes his punishment and tries not to drown in it.

Finally, satisfied that he’s made his point, Davis shifts again. John could fucking _kiss_ him when he feels that broad cock nuzzling into his vagina, so he does; he wraps his hands around the back of Davis’s neck and pulls him down for a filthy, deep kiss.

Davis drops down on top of him with an approving rumble and fists a hand in John’s hair to keep him in place, head back and throat bared. John groans with pleasure as Davis’s other hand pushes his knees up a few more inches. It stretches and flexes him intoxicatingly around the cock inside him, makes it nestle that little bit deeper. But when he tries to wriggle on it, he discovers that he’s completely immobilized; except for his arms, Davis has just thoroughly pinned him from head to toe.

Davis meets his eyes with a satisfied possessiveness that makes John feel searingly naked, aware of every inch of exposed skin on his body. Davis won him, fair and square, and God help him, John needs him to claim his prize. As Davis begins to take him, John’s fingers claw into his shoulders of their own volition. “Yes. Please. _Please._ ”

His pleading whimpers of pleasure drive Davis on as he picks up the pace, gets wilder, till his rhythm shatters and then he’s pumping semen deep into John’s body, pulsing right against John’s G-spot so he’s thrashing helplessly in Davis’s hold with every surge. He grips hard at Davis’s back--he’s probably leaving bruises--as he feels the forming knot forcing his body open, pressing against his prostate till bright stars of stimulation spark in his vision. His internal walls bear down with autonomous glee till his own body shatters into ripples of orgasm.

He lies there, shuddering and filthy and sweating under the heat of another over-exerted body, and cradles Davis to him, humming in his ear.

He stops when Davis starts to push himself up, and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Alright?”

Davis grunts. It sounds pretty raw, but there’s an embarrassment to it that points to the return of self-awareness. Then John hisses, because wait, they’re still attached. “Ow, wait, hang on. Just…” Davis isn’t in rut, so the knot is really just a token physiological response, but it’s still substantial enough that John draws a few breaths and braces himself. 

Davis waits, upper body pushed up on his arms, till he gets the nod. “Okay, now.” John hisses, long and drawn-out, as Davis withdraws, knot forcing John open wider as it pulls out.

Arse throbbing and spectacularly wet for an encounter outside heat, John pushes to his knees, pulls up what’s left of his trousers—at least he can belt them together well enough to avoid flashing everybody—and turns to face Davis fully. Davis won’t meet his eyes, so John grabs him by the remains of his shirt collar. “Come here. Look at me.”

Davis only sort of looks at him, a sideways glance, but John’ll let it count. “It’s alright. Trowbridge is alive. Murray got to him. Hey. I said look at me, Jeremy.” He grips Davis’s chin to make him face him. Guilt and shame are written all over his face. John knows what’s going through his head: _lost control in the field. Could’ve been the death of Trowbridge. Everyone saw it._ Bullshit, all of it. “You were trying to protect him. It could happen to anyone.”

_This was my fault and you know it,_ he wants to say, but it won’t be a comfort to Davis now. That’s a talk they’ll have to have later, when there’s more time and less emotion and John can explain that it’s the nightmares and not the caring too much. Instead, he slips into the circle of Davis’s arms and does his best to engulf the larger man in a bone-crackingly firm hug that he only releases after Davis catches on and hugs him back.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Jeremy,” he whispers into Davis’s ear. “You should’ve told me you were into bondage.”

Davis’s face flushes so red that John’s fairly sure he’s just forgotten about everything but the images now occupying his head. With a grin, he prods Davis in the direction of the unit. When he catches sight of Murray, Boyd and the fallen man they’re crouched over, Davis runs over to crash to his knees by his friend.

John watches him, then turns to meet Captain Boyd’s approach. “How’s Trowbridge, sir?”

“Murray’s not sure they’ll be able to save his leg,” Boyd tells him solemnly. “But we’ll get him back alive.”

There’s never anything to say to that kind of statement. John nods and turns toward Murray. “I should see if he needs help.”

“John.” Boyd’s hand around his bicep stops him. John looks at it, not quite sure whether the touch feels welcome or not, just now. When he looks up to meet Boyd’s eyes, the captain’s grip flexes, but he can’t quite seem to bring himself to let go. “What you just did. That was...” He clears his throat. “That wasn’t your job.”

It feels like being slapped. Technically, Boyd’s right; it isn’t his job. In fact, it’s so Not His Job that Boyd could probably get him court martialed for this stunt, if he wanted to place regulations over the welfare of his men. If he wanted to try to tell John how he’s allowed to be an omega. If he wanted to be a fucking hypocritical ingrate. 

Which Boyd isn’t. But after what he just went through, it puts John’s hackles up anyway. He takes one step sideways to face the captain head-on, chin lifted. “You have a problem with the way I care for my alphas? Sir?”

Boyd’s green eyes crinkle up in that shy smile that no one ever expects on his square-jawed face. “No. No complaints here.” He jerks his head toward the other men, and adds, “You’ll have a lot of cases of blueballs to cure, though, Doc. God _damn_ , I think my cock melted off."

John gives him a crooked grin.


End file.
